Days squeeze past me like eggs from a chicken.
No no, that doesn't work.
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'... into the future.
Well that's certainly not news. It's been NINE years since I started this blog. Nine years ago I took up another mantle, something else to feed and care for. Nine years since I had the thought that I could take on more.
Occasionally I think I can take on more -- but not so often any more. Things I've done since I started this blog, actually eight and a half years ago: fallen in love, multiple times; had my heart broken, multiple times; found that a friend I thought I had I did not, multiple times. I've misspent my money and only occasionally really regretted it. I had a Vespa and I crashed it, resulting in my first and only (knock on wood) ambulance ride. I started practicing martial arts, stopped (after the crash), and started again. I almost got married again. I've changed jobs, but only once.
In all this time I have been living alone, although I did nearly move in with a woman, only to wind up moving in with a different friend. I've learned to be more silent, to tell less. Even now I scan through these words to wonder if I'm saying too much. I learned to hold back, to not reply, to not answer, and just sit in silence.
More often I wish I had less... less crap in my apartment, less dust and fewer dishes. Less time spent at work, knotting my muscles in my shoulders over a keyboard and mouse, doing things I have little desire to do, though they pay me. They pay me and I persist. I haven't found enough courage to forge out on my own. Maybe one day....
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Columbo loses his shit over Faye Dunaway,
who is not really paying attention to him at all
Yeah okay, I thought maybe I was tripping. But I verified it. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0106589/reviews-8
That smokin' hot version of Faye Dunaway is flirting BIG TIME with the chick from Rome.
I almost lost it.
I was like -- I know it's June an' all. Pride and all. But....
Damn, I love Columbo.
Damn, I love Columbo.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Not ETS Approved Or Otherwise High Scoring Prose
I sit with my fingers on the keyboard, pensive and stuck, frozen by the photos sliding by on the laptop screen. These are the images I’ve captured over the last several months, either by camera on my phone or maybe a screen capture. They span years, actually, and re-tell the story of my life in a disjointed timeline, occasionally not referencing me at all. Maybe they are just ideas I had, or a friend had. Or an element of society at the time. Something that whizzed by. A beautiful woman. A bear.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Monday, October 20, 2014
Too Late, Too Long
My eyes are tired and always closing
If I sit still long enough, I will fall asleep
For me, this means I am old
My neck hurts, my knees hurt
For me, this means I am old
When I sit still long enough and think about
the ones I've loved,
what it feels like to lie in bed on a lazy afternoon
with sunlight streaming through the windows
setting dust mites to sparkle
and time stands still as you
hold hands
touch noses
gaze into the eyes of one you love
how long has it been?
I have had that. More than once I have had a
blissful moment of
crazy love
And More Than Once
I have appreciated the hell outta that moment
I have
I didn't let it go to waste.
If I sit still long enough, I will fall asleep
For me, this means I am old
My neck hurts, my knees hurt
For me, this means I am old
When I sit still long enough and think about
the ones I've loved,
what it feels like to lie in bed on a lazy afternoon
with sunlight streaming through the windows
setting dust mites to sparkle
and time stands still as you
hold hands
touch noses
gaze into the eyes of one you love
how long has it been?
I have had that. More than once I have had a
blissful moment of
crazy love
And More Than Once
I have appreciated the hell outta that moment
I have
I didn't let it go to waste.
Friday, December 28, 2012
obstinate
the muscles under my scalp are stretched too thin
they crisp and buckle when I turn my head
the sun sneaks inside my closed eyelids
miami blue shocks of electricity dance across
the field of vision of a closed eye
I turn, strain my neck and push against the world
I stand, short but firm
and stand against the world
they crisp and buckle when I turn my head
the sun sneaks inside my closed eyelids
miami blue shocks of electricity dance across
the field of vision of a closed eye
I turn, strain my neck and push against the world
I stand, short but firm
and stand against the world
a prayer for the skeptical
blessings
to be grateful, from your core
to wish for peace
peace in your ears, peace in your home
peace in your bones
stretching out to search for
this is the blessing of grace
to seek out to reach for
in this way I thank
delicate bits of language
guttural vowel boggles the mind
how then to praise
alleluyah, they will shout
getting it all wrong
hallel is the song of praise
that's what they say
they've said
for centuries
this is the way it's been.
It is glorious, if not dusty
It is heartfelt, if just a little wrong
getting it right is impossible
so many ways to do it wrong
my God
I try, then I tire of trying
I am tired
but I believe that morning still will come
there will be a day, when I miss that sunrise
and I know that day is no where near
I can't carry them all over, every day
some I let slip away
some I reget the slipping
some I calculate it up and reckon it right
sometimes I wonder what I could've done different
could've done to get it right
then I remember
right is impossible, really
either you bounce back, or you don't
you might lay there for a while
not bouncing.
then a spring appears
like the magic of Miriam
Magic.
Because we have no idea.
Beautiful magic.
Thank you, source of beautiful magic,
of times that seem to work out just right
of moments of incredible beauty
Thank you.
to be grateful, from your core
to wish for peace
peace in your ears, peace in your home
peace in your bones
stretching out to search for
this is the blessing of grace
to seek out to reach for
in this way I thank
delicate bits of language
guttural vowel boggles the mind
how then to praise
alleluyah, they will shout
getting it all wrong
hallel is the song of praise
that's what they say
they've said
for centuries
this is the way it's been.
It is glorious, if not dusty
It is heartfelt, if just a little wrong
getting it right is impossible
so many ways to do it wrong
my God
I try, then I tire of trying
I am tired
but I believe that morning still will come
there will be a day, when I miss that sunrise
and I know that day is no where near
I can't carry them all over, every day
some I let slip away
some I reget the slipping
some I calculate it up and reckon it right
sometimes I wonder what I could've done different
could've done to get it right
then I remember
right is impossible, really
either you bounce back, or you don't
you might lay there for a while
not bouncing.
then a spring appears
like the magic of Miriam
Magic.
Because we have no idea.
Beautiful magic.
Thank you, source of beautiful magic,
of times that seem to work out just right
of moments of incredible beauty
Thank you.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
candice christine
usury capricious
flourishing fighting
caps and stock, fraught with naught
captain cattle, head steer
all glory, no balls
structured strained yet cemented with
centuries of dust
mites molden into thy veins
Would you prune an afflicected finger,
or sever a weakened limb?
or would you care to heal heal
strive against what is surely a sisyphian system
your struggle cuts orange stripes across my shoulders
your sugar fairies dance lightly on my tongue
but the fire of your wrath stings still
I am the ogre
come to tame the tamed
uncover their writhing and say:
you could cut this off.
You could sever yourself from this cancer
or you could try to heal it and infect yourself in the process
I am the hammer, come with force and brutish foul
flourishing fighting
caps and stock, fraught with naught
captain cattle, head steer
all glory, no balls
structured strained yet cemented with
centuries of dust
mites molden into thy veins
Would you prune an afflicected finger,
or sever a weakened limb?
or would you care to heal heal
strive against what is surely a sisyphian system
your struggle cuts orange stripes across my shoulders
your sugar fairies dance lightly on my tongue
but the fire of your wrath stings still
I am the ogre
come to tame the tamed
uncover their writhing and say:
you could cut this off.
You could sever yourself from this cancer
or you could try to heal it and infect yourself in the process
I am the hammer, come with force and brutish foul
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
On Why Life Is Not Fair
It's not fair, to be writing only at the beginning and the ending. There was so much inbetween. A heaven sandwich, with a bitter nut hidden in the cream. She said she knew at the beginning, when she was trying not to start. That's what she said. Maybe if we had had this conversation then, instead of the one we did.... Maybe if things had been different, things would be different. Maybe I never woulda had that sandwich.
Maybe that's why.
Still.
So, post-mortem details of the cream are: hours at a bookstore, reading and talking excitedly; walking in the cooling air amid trees beginning to turn; reading more and more talking, good discussions; drumming; a lovely assortment of passion-filled encounters; luscious days in Hershey, full of patience and sweetness.
That sweetness, asked for again instead of the pushy drive, got the response about "my needs too." "Really? Really?" I thought driving through the rain, taking her home for the last time. I was appalled at the assumption, at the entitlement. Let me introduce you to the idea of My Body and also What I Say Is What I Mean.
This vicious streak was a raspberry syrup to my delightful creamy heaven sandwich. I hate raspberries. It was new and now it is gone.
Ah but the nut, the nut of truth (what is truth?) and justice (is there ever justice?). I didn't care about the American way, but I am committed to the Jewish way. Like, directly, purposefully, this thing I will care for, I will not give it up. It's the basis for my breath. It's my guide, with whom I argue and question, to whom I give thanks. It's my reason for loving, the reason I can love. I have the ability to fall in love so so quickly. I'm easy like that. I give my love away for free. And having decided that alone is not so bad, I am ratcheting up my selection process and filtering out what is not good for me. I gained this super power directly after my first and only mikvah. True.
Yes, my reality is woven together like this. Yours may be different. And that is awesome. I would love to hear the story of your weaving. When we try to make a cloth out of us both, and maybe add another, we all have to give -- in order to weave you have to go under.
But my reality, my underpinnings, what I believe -- there's gotta be room for that. And yes I will choose my faith over passionate love for an individual, if that's the choice I have to make. That's how I roll. That was easy.
It's easy to fill in the gaps in the story. Even what I write isn't complete. Making whatever assumptions you're making in your mind right now not true. There is another side to the story and I can hear her protesting now. I can see her in my mind and the vision makes me smile. I know her like this. It's not all bad, at all, even really a little. It's just not going to work.
Maybe that's why.
Still.
So, post-mortem details of the cream are: hours at a bookstore, reading and talking excitedly; walking in the cooling air amid trees beginning to turn; reading more and more talking, good discussions; drumming; a lovely assortment of passion-filled encounters; luscious days in Hershey, full of patience and sweetness.
That sweetness, asked for again instead of the pushy drive, got the response about "my needs too." "Really? Really?" I thought driving through the rain, taking her home for the last time. I was appalled at the assumption, at the entitlement. Let me introduce you to the idea of My Body and also What I Say Is What I Mean.
This vicious streak was a raspberry syrup to my delightful creamy heaven sandwich. I hate raspberries. It was new and now it is gone.
Ah but the nut, the nut of truth (what is truth?) and justice (is there ever justice?). I didn't care about the American way, but I am committed to the Jewish way. Like, directly, purposefully, this thing I will care for, I will not give it up. It's the basis for my breath. It's my guide, with whom I argue and question, to whom I give thanks. It's my reason for loving, the reason I can love. I have the ability to fall in love so so quickly. I'm easy like that. I give my love away for free. And having decided that alone is not so bad, I am ratcheting up my selection process and filtering out what is not good for me. I gained this super power directly after my first and only mikvah. True.
Yes, my reality is woven together like this. Yours may be different. And that is awesome. I would love to hear the story of your weaving. When we try to make a cloth out of us both, and maybe add another, we all have to give -- in order to weave you have to go under.
But my reality, my underpinnings, what I believe -- there's gotta be room for that. And yes I will choose my faith over passionate love for an individual, if that's the choice I have to make. That's how I roll. That was easy.
It's easy to fill in the gaps in the story. Even what I write isn't complete. Making whatever assumptions you're making in your mind right now not true. There is another side to the story and I can hear her protesting now. I can see her in my mind and the vision makes me smile. I know her like this. It's not all bad, at all, even really a little. It's just not going to work.
excessively
Tell me the story
Of my people, your ancestors
Speak their truths
And let me run my hands over their smooth stones
Tell me talk and teach
Worrying wanted wanton souls
Weary, they are
Sing me a song, tell me your story
Whisper it
Dainty and droll
Wing me a wonder and whisk me away
Take it, take my wanton soul
Sacrifice on your altar
Let the smoke rise, a faint gift for the missing prayers
Wing me wantonly, wind my soul
Ratchet me up in a tree
Sing me a song of yearning
Wearily, wretchedly, lurching along this path
An ogre, an eyeball, a humped back.
Five hairs sprouting on the roof of her head
Six rolls wiggling, neck to knee indeed
Six spoons spitting sugar and candy and weed
Six strings singing
Lost in the sound the light from above
Six maids a milking, as they always were
A particular sound
Brief the potter, prepare the store
Brief the messenger, tell her more
Set siege to the city
From the tombs down below
Sing the sweet city to sleep
Sing the sweet city
Sleep
Monday, October 8, 2012
(something old, left unpublished)
Oh a kiss of words! A delight.
Finally from a love
From one who knows how to stroke me right.
This, this nugget of me from old
I dusted this off. It's of you
Your family those folk you know.
To me this is how I am loved.
Seems strange. And quickly morose, denied.
I wonder
Why
No, it's fabulous to get that
But wanting is pure hell
Waiting... I should practice waiting.
I do. I try to find LONG stretches of time.
Hang on long moments.
Always alone.
There's something to that. This thing.
Alone.
I would like to be alone, next to someone. To get that space
Finally from a love
From one who knows how to stroke me right.
This, this nugget of me from old
I dusted this off. It's of you
Your family those folk you know.
To me this is how I am loved.
Seems strange. And quickly morose, denied.
I wonder
Why
No, it's fabulous to get that
But wanting is pure hell
Waiting... I should practice waiting.
I do. I try to find LONG stretches of time.
Hang on long moments.
Always alone.
There's something to that. This thing.
Alone.
I would like to be alone, next to someone. To get that space
Monday, June 25, 2012
By Request
time being not of the essence
I work my way through work,
largely thinking of last night
replaying each scene
do you do that?
the initial meeting -- full of fright and delight
a handshake, a shock
lips, glossed and luminous
eyes, big and bright
I was immediately in.
Awkward, yes, but there
leading you down the sidewalk
buying beverages and sitting in the shade
starting the talking
Slightly afraid to look directly into your eyes
an intense woman stared back
and smiled
with every cell
Talking
talking people talking concepts
telling stories
Was I talking too much?
I left worrying
You took notes:
words you hadn't heard
websites, names
You insisted I correct you
when your English was too English
and I was delighted
for so many reasons
You talked about "working on the bench"
and spending all your time in the lab.
I imagine ueber-focused you in a long white coat
unaware of an untied shoe or a half-eaten lunch
We talked translation and knowing
And perspective
When I stopped talking you didn't squirm
We dined and talked and laughed
We walked and talked less and touched
palm to palm, fingers entwined then not
I became both more comfortable and
more insecure.
What next? What next?
No idea but I'm flying now.
Blisters bubbled on my foot.
I drove you home, worried about my driving
and giving you whiplash with a gear shift.
You insisted on icing my blisters
and I let you touch my funky feet
embarrassed about untrimmed nails.
I remember: playing your electronic drums
and asking you to play.
I remember standing behind you and you leaning back into me.
The touch of you feeling like a memory
The top of your head and your hair
coarse under my lips.
Am I going too fast? Too wild?
Too close too soon?
Maybe not enough!
The options are endless
and I ask for information:
what are you thinking?
a brief tour of the house and then I'm leaving
Too sudden? My timing is off and my heart is racing.
I'm awkward in my head but barreling through.
Porch. Front door cracked open.
Your face, luminous
and I don't think I stopped at all to think before
pressing my lips to yours
Sweet softness with response
Kiss and then a deep breath
that may have been the world moving under you
More, I want, and so I take
You kiss back, with passion and reservation
You shut the door and I walk to my car,
always wanting more, but I feel you hold back
"What?" I ask.
"I don't really know the neighborhood."
I'm boorish, I realize, and pushy, frisky and grabby.
Yes, I would have loved to go back inside. Take back my
departing phrases and take off my hat.
should've?
I'm a greedy little bugger and maybe too much
would have loved to
make you stay up too late
I work my way through work,
largely thinking of last night
replaying each scene
do you do that?
the initial meeting -- full of fright and delight
a handshake, a shock
lips, glossed and luminous
eyes, big and bright
I was immediately in.
Awkward, yes, but there
leading you down the sidewalk
buying beverages and sitting in the shade
starting the talking
Slightly afraid to look directly into your eyes
an intense woman stared back
and smiled
with every cell
Talking
talking people talking concepts
telling stories
Was I talking too much?
I left worrying
You took notes:
words you hadn't heard
websites, names
You insisted I correct you
when your English was too English
and I was delighted
for so many reasons
You talked about "working on the bench"
and spending all your time in the lab.
I imagine ueber-focused you in a long white coat
unaware of an untied shoe or a half-eaten lunch
We talked translation and knowing
And perspective
When I stopped talking you didn't squirm
We dined and talked and laughed
We walked and talked less and touched
palm to palm, fingers entwined then not
I became both more comfortable and
more insecure.
What next? What next?
No idea but I'm flying now.
Blisters bubbled on my foot.
I drove you home, worried about my driving
and giving you whiplash with a gear shift.
You insisted on icing my blisters
and I let you touch my funky feet
embarrassed about untrimmed nails.
I remember: playing your electronic drums
and asking you to play.
I remember standing behind you and you leaning back into me.
The touch of you feeling like a memory
The top of your head and your hair
coarse under my lips.
Am I going too fast? Too wild?
Too close too soon?
Maybe not enough!
The options are endless
and I ask for information:
what are you thinking?
a brief tour of the house and then I'm leaving
Too sudden? My timing is off and my heart is racing.
I'm awkward in my head but barreling through.
Porch. Front door cracked open.
Your face, luminous
and I don't think I stopped at all to think before
pressing my lips to yours
Sweet softness with response
Kiss and then a deep breath
that may have been the world moving under you
More, I want, and so I take
You kiss back, with passion and reservation
You shut the door and I walk to my car,
always wanting more, but I feel you hold back
"What?" I ask.
"I don't really know the neighborhood."
I'm boorish, I realize, and pushy, frisky and grabby.
Yes, I would have loved to go back inside. Take back my
departing phrases and take off my hat.
should've?
I'm a greedy little bugger and maybe too much
would have loved to
make you stay up too late
Actively Forget
(this is an old one, written in the fall of 2011)
Yes.
Specifically to actively forget, to move on, to keep going, just like I said I was. I never stopped.
Don't do it, friends said. You'll get attached.
Of course I'll get attached. I loves me some attachment, I do.
Metered, please. Controlled, but oh! Not that much.
Shopping for soulmates never works. I would that I could be silent with someone. It occurs to be this should be a prerequisite and perhaps an addition to my various online dating profiles. "Must be able to be still and watch." That's not it, either.
The stop-start of conversation is different with different people. And indeed different at different times. So sweet when it seems to flow naturally, mutually.
Ah mutuality! Where have you been? Why do you live so far away?
No, nothing is perfect. Cracks and fissures emerge no matter how solid. I believe that. Which is why I relish in being able to watch myself, alone.
I try to find LONG stretches of time.
Hang on long moments.
Always alone.
There's something to that. This thing.
Alone.
But then there's this compelling thing about some people. What is that? What is that bell that gets rung in my head. It happens immediately, for the most part. Seriously. I know in five minutes if I'm going to fall for this one. Less. Two.
What is that?
Programming, let's say. And that's true for sure. Trying to resolve a relationship of the past. Trying to work past the point where we wondered "why can't I make this work?" And I wonder why. And how I can know so quickly. But I do, of this I am sure.
Oh that bell, that sweet sweet bell. I don't hear it but I feel the vibration go all through my body. And then I can't help but stare. Talk. Open up. There you go. Were you looking for my heart? Right here, hon.
Yeah, I know. Trying to win the attention of someone, that's my Achilles heel. I am relentlessly the six year old, doing a cannonball into the pool, picking out a tune on the piano, singing a Helen Reddy song by the slide tucked into the wading pool. It's good, I promise, and I mean earnestly. It's the best I've got and all I have and it's for you.
(brakes screech)
Right well, it used to go that far. Now I am relentlessly paranoid and guarded. Except for those internal gong moments, and then all bets are off. Pavlov's motherfucking bell, man.
Somehow I know that the initial attention is temporary, and I decide somewhere that I will prove myself, once and for all.
Yup.
Secret unlocked. Sim sala bim!
Now, out! All the madness and sadness and what the fuck are you CRYING about now? Huh? What you need, sister, is a good dose of Actively Forget. You need to open your eyes and look around. Never mind that Gong Sister you spied tonight. Keep it moving. Yes yesyes.
Come on. To bed. Your ass has to be up in the morning.
Yes.
Specifically to actively forget, to move on, to keep going, just like I said I was. I never stopped.
Don't do it, friends said. You'll get attached.
Of course I'll get attached. I loves me some attachment, I do.
Metered, please. Controlled, but oh! Not that much.
Shopping for soulmates never works. I would that I could be silent with someone. It occurs to be this should be a prerequisite and perhaps an addition to my various online dating profiles. "Must be able to be still and watch." That's not it, either.
The stop-start of conversation is different with different people. And indeed different at different times. So sweet when it seems to flow naturally, mutually.
Ah mutuality! Where have you been? Why do you live so far away?
No, nothing is perfect. Cracks and fissures emerge no matter how solid. I believe that. Which is why I relish in being able to watch myself, alone.
I try to find LONG stretches of time.
Hang on long moments.
Always alone.
There's something to that. This thing.
Alone.
But then there's this compelling thing about some people. What is that? What is that bell that gets rung in my head. It happens immediately, for the most part. Seriously. I know in five minutes if I'm going to fall for this one. Less. Two.
What is that?
Programming, let's say. And that's true for sure. Trying to resolve a relationship of the past. Trying to work past the point where we wondered "why can't I make this work?" And I wonder why. And how I can know so quickly. But I do, of this I am sure.
Oh that bell, that sweet sweet bell. I don't hear it but I feel the vibration go all through my body. And then I can't help but stare. Talk. Open up. There you go. Were you looking for my heart? Right here, hon.
Yeah, I know. Trying to win the attention of someone, that's my Achilles heel. I am relentlessly the six year old, doing a cannonball into the pool, picking out a tune on the piano, singing a Helen Reddy song by the slide tucked into the wading pool. It's good, I promise, and I mean earnestly. It's the best I've got and all I have and it's for you.
(brakes screech)
Right well, it used to go that far. Now I am relentlessly paranoid and guarded. Except for those internal gong moments, and then all bets are off. Pavlov's motherfucking bell, man.
Somehow I know that the initial attention is temporary, and I decide somewhere that I will prove myself, once and for all.
Yup.
Secret unlocked. Sim sala bim!
Now, out! All the madness and sadness and what the fuck are you CRYING about now? Huh? What you need, sister, is a good dose of Actively Forget. You need to open your eyes and look around. Never mind that Gong Sister you spied tonight. Keep it moving. Yes yesyes.
Come on. To bed. Your ass has to be up in the morning.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Must I Make a New Year's Blog Post? Yes? Fine. Jeez.
All right, I've been thinking about it for a while now and here's what my new year's resolutions are for this year:
-- be me, a little louder: I think it'll be okay. And the stuff that pops outta me is sometimes amazing. It's worth it to get to the good nuggets to deal with the flotsam that will also surely come
-- push the Columbo effect: That is to say, long awkward silences followed by weird questions. This works for me in terms of time needed to think. Might mean blocking out voices until I know what I need to understand, and then probe for more. Also, it's a fine meme for me. Work it.
-- get rumpled raincoat: It doesn't have to start rumpled, it'll get that way eventually naturally (re. the rest of your clothes) Also, get the stuff you need, dude, like socks and underwear. Handkerchiefs. Throw away the shit with holes. You make money: stop buying food and start buying clothes.
-- keep up the fight against fat: A great segue from the last, but true. I will ALWAYS have to be vigilant if I want to be successful with food. I love food. And food loves me. But we need some serious boundaries in our relationship. Love yourself. Love your body. Take good care of yourself, as you would your own child -- Lord knows someone needs to, finally.
-- be me, a little louder: I think it'll be okay. And the stuff that pops outta me is sometimes amazing. It's worth it to get to the good nuggets to deal with the flotsam that will also surely come
-- push the Columbo effect: That is to say, long awkward silences followed by weird questions. This works for me in terms of time needed to think. Might mean blocking out voices until I know what I need to understand, and then probe for more. Also, it's a fine meme for me. Work it.
-- get rumpled raincoat: It doesn't have to start rumpled, it'll get that way eventually naturally (re. the rest of your clothes) Also, get the stuff you need, dude, like socks and underwear. Handkerchiefs. Throw away the shit with holes. You make money: stop buying food and start buying clothes.
-- keep up the fight against fat: A great segue from the last, but true. I will ALWAYS have to be vigilant if I want to be successful with food. I love food. And food loves me. But we need some serious boundaries in our relationship. Love yourself. Love your body. Take good care of yourself, as you would your own child -- Lord knows someone needs to, finally.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Top Ten Times You Said Yes
It promises to a helluva year
And I will do what I can to do those things
That will make me a better man.
I will stop talking about myself in gender-confusing ways
I'll eat only my prescribed 1200 calories a day and
waste away, mind first
I'll speak more and write
Even more than that
We have to keep the ratio right
I'll set aside my need for
snugly love and lean into
leather lashes, properly provided
Pretend harder that I wouldn't be
Equally confused and undecided
Even if I had a picket fence & puppy
I will make more effort to learn
the purpose and power, to yearn
for the rhyme. I'll own it.
I will tear down the paper thin walls
that looked like steel for years
I'll be consistent in my stanza
my phrase
my intent
my love
My love will always be consistent
Consistently there, waiting, wondering
Wandering, hopeless like a child
No.
I'll stand as still as I need to and listen to the rush of wind. I will predict the acorn falling. I'll know what it's all for.
I'll finally get over the failure of my mother, although I'll never forgive her. I'll describe her deeds in detail and publish them all over the cloud.
I'll tell the story
of the mountain of me
and how I got to be
so
tall
I'll own it
because I'm that strong.
I'll stand still
and let the children climb over me.
I will laugh
my signature hearty chuckle
and it will shake the trees
And I'll say, "I called that one."
And it won't matter at all.
And we'll smile all the same.
The pain is part of it. This we know.
But look! Look.
There it is.
Found it.
And I will do what I can to do those things
That will make me a better man.
I will stop talking about myself in gender-confusing ways
I'll eat only my prescribed 1200 calories a day and
waste away, mind first
I'll speak more and write
Even more than that
We have to keep the ratio right
I'll set aside my need for
snugly love and lean into
leather lashes, properly provided
Pretend harder that I wouldn't be
Equally confused and undecided
Even if I had a picket fence & puppy
I will make more effort to learn
the purpose and power, to yearn
for the rhyme. I'll own it.
I will tear down the paper thin walls
that looked like steel for years
I'll be consistent in my stanza
my phrase
my intent
my love
My love will always be consistent
Consistently there, waiting, wondering
Wandering, hopeless like a child
No.
I'll stand as still as I need to and listen to the rush of wind. I will predict the acorn falling. I'll know what it's all for.
I'll finally get over the failure of my mother, although I'll never forgive her. I'll describe her deeds in detail and publish them all over the cloud.
I'll tell the story
of the mountain of me
and how I got to be
so
tall
I'll own it
because I'm that strong.
I'll stand still
and let the children climb over me.
I will laugh
my signature hearty chuckle
and it will shake the trees
And I'll say, "I called that one."
And it won't matter at all.
And we'll smile all the same.
The pain is part of it. This we know.
But look! Look.
There it is.
Found it.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Doctors
Okay, I admit it, it's true: I have a new found *thing* for doctors. Or maybe I'm simply just now identifying my predilection for the highly educated, highly motivated young woman doctor. They're so freaking cute!
The ER doc defintely started this trend, though I've always had a crush on my GP. You could've knocked me over with a feather when I saw the vet this morning. Of course her giant wedding ring was a (fairly) clear indicator that I should just stand down, but I was already agog.
I'm fairly certain that even the most socially inept individual can read my face. I am only mysterious at an Aspberger conference. So I'm certain the animal doc read me right away, leading to our mutual stammering-stuttering-blushing-fest as we talked fungus and ringworm and fleas.
I try not to look like an idiot. It doesn't always work.
Friday, August 26, 2011
The Thing About The Blogging
I know, I know. I should be writing. Snippy snazzy bits of sentences and half-baked ideas go flying through my head all the time. Usually when I'm driving.
For weeks I've been promisng myself to reconnect to Blogger via email so I could just whip out my smart phone and be pithy on the spot. Or, you know, pull over.
Some of my favorite bloggers have been really quiet for too long, also. And I'd like to harass them about writing more, but really couldn't with my own poor showing.
So let's get back to it, shall we? The world needs our snark and sarcasm. It's a dimmer place without excessive alliteration and our unique perspective. Not everybody can live upside-down, or inside-out, or... whatever the hell I'm doing.
Oo-rah!
Monday, July 25, 2011
Standing Silent, Even While It Stings
I recognize the need to keep a stiff upper lip. It's part play-acting, for others' sake and for your own. If you say it enough times, you believe it. "I'm fine. No worries." I am not so big on play-acting, though it has its place. Generally though I'm more of an emotional billboard, announcing broadly exactly what I feel.
Not sure which way to go right now.
I'll tell you honestly that I feel a strange kind of sad. It's strange because there's a stiff-upper-lip built into it, and I don't know why.
Maybe the crash started when I was coming down off the multi-day high of sexual tension building over e-media: photos and words exchanged, the former stolen and reblogged, the latter crafted by me. If crescendo doesn't mean crashing, it should.
This Saturday was full of wicked news: The untimely death of Amy Winehouse, crooner extraordinaire and a real hot mess. The massacre in Norway, by a man claiming to be a Christian, fighting for Israel. And the unrelenting heat wave, which wasn't really news, but continued to punish us across the country.
I feel guilt about Amy Winehouse -- probably not entirely because I feel that I should've done something more -- but more because her death is an echo of a work friend who died late last fall, also found dead in her bed, also who struggled with alcohol and a hard, complicated life. I didn't help her either, but rather kept her an arm's length away, not wanting the dark cloud of her defeating life to touch mine. I feel guilt about that, guilt that I didn't reach out, care more, fix more.
I am bitter about my inner desire to fix and heal. I see it as an illness that looks like graciousness but is probably rooted in something deeper, sicker, and certainly less desirable. I have already promised myself and announced that I am not going to be anybody's white knight anymore. Any potential partner will come with the ability to solve her own shit, and a job of her own.
I'm distressed about the Norway shooter, who claims to have done his destruction because he wants to support Israel. Whack-job militaristic nut bags defending Israel was NOT in my wishlist for peace in the Middle East. I'm left to wonder when the cycle of attack/defend from the other children of Abraham will simmer down enough to have a family reunion. Must we lump all Christians together? Must we lump all Muslims together? God knows the Jews themselves don't want to be indistinguishable from each other, even while we grudgingly defend our own whack-job counterparts' right to exist. Exist yes, legislate no. I fear the total demise of pluralistic religion in Israel, as the "right way" to be Jewish narrows.
My friends are largely saner than I. They explain to me the realistic expectations that I should have: I can't have done a thing for Amy Winehouse. There will probably never be peace in the Middle East. My friends think it's sweet that I want to save the world, but they're a fairly logical bunch, geeks and scientists and such. I would rather live near them, though, to counterbalance my own lofty dreams and excessive emotion. Someone needs to give me the high water mark, so I know when I'm flying and need to come down.
So. I saw the flag. The those-are-your-emotions flag and the data that accompanies it. I suppose that's where I know I need to buck it up, and keep going. Me and my long face did laundry and cleared off the mountain of crap on my coffee table. I did not cry, as I often do when I am overwhelmed with the sad emotion of the composite of humanity. It is not a happy story, even when you sample the greatness of some, the compassion of many. No. Overwhelmingly it is a story that makes you shout "not fair!" and occasionally "why me?" out loud. I feel the lows, and I am sometimes unwilling if not unable to drag myself out of bed and to work. I don't take a pill for it... yet. I am mostly healthy, even though my knees scream at me during and after a workout. According to doctors I am slowly dying from fatness. Even still I struggle with not consuming my grief through calories. I seek other solutions, other ways to relieve my soul. I workout like a maniac, every day I can, turning myself into an addict for adrenaline & pushing myself beyond my comfort zone.
Who am I to want to mend souls, with my own a patchwork in tatters? I don't know. But I know when others hurt, I hurt. Empathy is hardly a strength, when it buckles my own knees. My brain searches for a solution. It is an equation, after all. There must be a way to solve it. And then I think: there is a way, through loss, through pain and tragedy. I know, I sound melodramatic. But the point is: that *has* to be there. Has to be. Not just because we need an opposite for happiness and triumph. The negative is the chisel to the positive marble, cutting away the excess, showing us the form inside the block. It belongs. It is part of the process.
So. No crying, unless it's one of those stoic single tears tracing the curve of my cheek. Chin up, and stand tall. No one is going to save you but you. No one can do what you want, but you. Dust off your boots and tighten the tourniquet. Keep walking, cowboy.
Not sure which way to go right now.
I'll tell you honestly that I feel a strange kind of sad. It's strange because there's a stiff-upper-lip built into it, and I don't know why.
Maybe the crash started when I was coming down off the multi-day high of sexual tension building over e-media: photos and words exchanged, the former stolen and reblogged, the latter crafted by me. If crescendo doesn't mean crashing, it should.
This Saturday was full of wicked news: The untimely death of Amy Winehouse, crooner extraordinaire and a real hot mess. The massacre in Norway, by a man claiming to be a Christian, fighting for Israel. And the unrelenting heat wave, which wasn't really news, but continued to punish us across the country.
I feel guilt about Amy Winehouse -- probably not entirely because I feel that I should've done something more -- but more because her death is an echo of a work friend who died late last fall, also found dead in her bed, also who struggled with alcohol and a hard, complicated life. I didn't help her either, but rather kept her an arm's length away, not wanting the dark cloud of her defeating life to touch mine. I feel guilt about that, guilt that I didn't reach out, care more, fix more.
I am bitter about my inner desire to fix and heal. I see it as an illness that looks like graciousness but is probably rooted in something deeper, sicker, and certainly less desirable. I have already promised myself and announced that I am not going to be anybody's white knight anymore. Any potential partner will come with the ability to solve her own shit, and a job of her own.
I'm distressed about the Norway shooter, who claims to have done his destruction because he wants to support Israel. Whack-job militaristic nut bags defending Israel was NOT in my wishlist for peace in the Middle East. I'm left to wonder when the cycle of attack/defend from the other children of Abraham will simmer down enough to have a family reunion. Must we lump all Christians together? Must we lump all Muslims together? God knows the Jews themselves don't want to be indistinguishable from each other, even while we grudgingly defend our own whack-job counterparts' right to exist. Exist yes, legislate no. I fear the total demise of pluralistic religion in Israel, as the "right way" to be Jewish narrows.
My friends are largely saner than I. They explain to me the realistic expectations that I should have: I can't have done a thing for Amy Winehouse. There will probably never be peace in the Middle East. My friends think it's sweet that I want to save the world, but they're a fairly logical bunch, geeks and scientists and such. I would rather live near them, though, to counterbalance my own lofty dreams and excessive emotion. Someone needs to give me the high water mark, so I know when I'm flying and need to come down.
So. I saw the flag. The those-are-your-emotions flag and the data that accompanies it. I suppose that's where I know I need to buck it up, and keep going. Me and my long face did laundry and cleared off the mountain of crap on my coffee table. I did not cry, as I often do when I am overwhelmed with the sad emotion of the composite of humanity. It is not a happy story, even when you sample the greatness of some, the compassion of many. No. Overwhelmingly it is a story that makes you shout "not fair!" and occasionally "why me?" out loud. I feel the lows, and I am sometimes unwilling if not unable to drag myself out of bed and to work. I don't take a pill for it... yet. I am mostly healthy, even though my knees scream at me during and after a workout. According to doctors I am slowly dying from fatness. Even still I struggle with not consuming my grief through calories. I seek other solutions, other ways to relieve my soul. I workout like a maniac, every day I can, turning myself into an addict for adrenaline & pushing myself beyond my comfort zone.
Who am I to want to mend souls, with my own a patchwork in tatters? I don't know. But I know when others hurt, I hurt. Empathy is hardly a strength, when it buckles my own knees. My brain searches for a solution. It is an equation, after all. There must be a way to solve it. And then I think: there is a way, through loss, through pain and tragedy. I know, I sound melodramatic. But the point is: that *has* to be there. Has to be. Not just because we need an opposite for happiness and triumph. The negative is the chisel to the positive marble, cutting away the excess, showing us the form inside the block. It belongs. It is part of the process.
So. No crying, unless it's one of those stoic single tears tracing the curve of my cheek. Chin up, and stand tall. No one is going to save you but you. No one can do what you want, but you. Dust off your boots and tighten the tourniquet. Keep walking, cowboy.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Smells
I can still smell her on me. We hugged, three times. Once in greeting, twice in departing. My wife, whom I haven't lived with since 2006. 2001 - 2006. We married in 2003 in Canada, Niagara-on-the-Lake, just weeks after Ontario passed a law making it possible for us to legally marry.
Her perfume is familiar, although I couldn't tell you the name of it. It goes nicely with my Old Spice. I would have you believe that she knows that.
We share a lot of common desires: good food, silverware that is both elegant and heavy in your hand, expensive glasses frames (although she got laser surgery), good food. She wanted to take me to dinner for my birthday, which was Monday. We went to a Japanese restaurant well known for their skewers. Their sushi was exquisite. I knew it would be. My wife don't play. Not when it comes to food.
With her I learned to appreciate fine things. I learned about blending two tastes together, two scents together, to make something completely amazing. With her I learned how to be quick and nimble, not physically, but financially and socially. I called her Rocketgirl. She was a true lion, a Leo all the way. I fancied myself a lion tamer, specially qualified to understand, moderate, and love.
I do still love. The rest, I know is folly. I love because... because I do. She has an apartment in my heart, next to some other important suites and residences.
Still, I worry, am wary. For all the fabulousness there were pitfalls, things I wouldn't describe in detail here. Enough, I would say, to give reason to the split. Faults were many, on both sides. I know so much more now. Who can say what could've happened otherwise.
So I sipped sake and listened, interjected occassionally a story, or simply exclaimed about the food. It is really good. We let the chef feed us whatever. I opted to set aside my half-assed kosher following and eat the funky fish and shellfish. I tasted the porkbelly, the first ever in my life. It was divine. The sake she ordered was light and bubbly and cold. I started the evening with chilled vodka straight up, so I was good and ready for this very drinkable sake.
She gave me a gift: a soft leather bound journal with unlined pages. And a card that said, mostly, "sorry."
So close. So soft. Known, with memories sown into the corners. Smells so good. But I don't lean in. I don't. I don't flirt, but I am looking, watching her eyes. Remembering. And then thinking about what is real, now. Words are one thing. Action something else. Will I even give enough room to move? I am fixed, for now. Time, says the 42-year-old part of my brain, is the key. That gives a pattern to movement, movement to intentions.
No. Part of me will still get lost. Gets lost between vodka and black sesame ice cream. That is enough for now. Back to me.
I hailed her a cab.
Her perfume is familiar, although I couldn't tell you the name of it. It goes nicely with my Old Spice. I would have you believe that she knows that.
We share a lot of common desires: good food, silverware that is both elegant and heavy in your hand, expensive glasses frames (although she got laser surgery), good food. She wanted to take me to dinner for my birthday, which was Monday. We went to a Japanese restaurant well known for their skewers. Their sushi was exquisite. I knew it would be. My wife don't play. Not when it comes to food.
With her I learned to appreciate fine things. I learned about blending two tastes together, two scents together, to make something completely amazing. With her I learned how to be quick and nimble, not physically, but financially and socially. I called her Rocketgirl. She was a true lion, a Leo all the way. I fancied myself a lion tamer, specially qualified to understand, moderate, and love.
I do still love. The rest, I know is folly. I love because... because I do. She has an apartment in my heart, next to some other important suites and residences.
Still, I worry, am wary. For all the fabulousness there were pitfalls, things I wouldn't describe in detail here. Enough, I would say, to give reason to the split. Faults were many, on both sides. I know so much more now. Who can say what could've happened otherwise.
So I sipped sake and listened, interjected occassionally a story, or simply exclaimed about the food. It is really good. We let the chef feed us whatever. I opted to set aside my half-assed kosher following and eat the funky fish and shellfish. I tasted the porkbelly, the first ever in my life. It was divine. The sake she ordered was light and bubbly and cold. I started the evening with chilled vodka straight up, so I was good and ready for this very drinkable sake.
She gave me a gift: a soft leather bound journal with unlined pages. And a card that said, mostly, "sorry."
So close. So soft. Known, with memories sown into the corners. Smells so good. But I don't lean in. I don't. I don't flirt, but I am looking, watching her eyes. Remembering. And then thinking about what is real, now. Words are one thing. Action something else. Will I even give enough room to move? I am fixed, for now. Time, says the 42-year-old part of my brain, is the key. That gives a pattern to movement, movement to intentions.
No. Part of me will still get lost. Gets lost between vodka and black sesame ice cream. That is enough for now. Back to me.
I hailed her a cab.
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